


I wore his jacket for the longest time

by ThatWeirdGuyInTheBushes



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Injuries, POV Second Person, Platonic Relationships, Self-Esteem Issues, Swearing, Trans Male Character, Zombie Apocalypse, binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29387544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWeirdGuyInTheBushes/pseuds/ThatWeirdGuyInTheBushes
Summary: This is August in Washington: Warm sunlight washes down your face and cold winds scamper over your arms and the world has gone to ruin.-Five months in the apocalypse, and the family that you collect in spite of it.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	I wore his jacket for the longest time

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from Crush by Richard Siken

This is August in Washington: Warm sunlight washes down your face and cold winds scamper over your arms and the world has gone to ruin.

You meet Brooke first. You don’t remember the first words you said to each other but you remember the way she shook under her jacket and held her hands in front of her head as if that would do anything to stop your bat.

You remember the way you lowered it to your side, tapping the metal against your thigh, and asked if she knew first aid.

You led her back to the motel you’d been holed up in for two weeks. She set your dislocated shoulder, let you bite down on her balled up sweater to keep you from screaming before you even asked for her name. She looked hesitant to give it to you. You think names hold more power in her world than yours.

You steal guns together. She keeps all of them. You can’t let go of your bat.

This is September in Washington: It is cold more days than not, it snowed a week ago and you are still complaining about it, and you are fleeing the motel.

The motel is not easy to flee. A zombie grabs your ankle and you have to cave it’s head in with your bat. Brooke is so close to being bitten that you think you might have a heart attack.

A boy sees you running through the streets, struggling for air (You don’t know when your binder got this tight), and he calls out to you. He’s standing on the roof of a small building and tells you that he’ll unbarricade the top of the stairs for you. You think he’s an idiot. Or maybe just nice. Not much difference, anymore.

Brooke shouts out “Cinque!” when she sees him, and you think  _ oh, that’s why. _ It makes more sense than him helping out two strangers.

You make it to the top and the two of them embrace. You shift your feet, a little awkward, a little jealous without totally understanding why.

He shakes your hand, and you grip a little too tight on purpose. You keep your bat in your offhand, although that can’t be taken as much of a threat, considering how you would do it regardless.

This is October in Washington: It is cold more days than not, you fear the day it snows again, and there is a couple on the roof.

You haven’t carved out a niche in this group of three yet. Brooke doesn’t seem to mean it, but you feel like an add on. You barely know them, it makes perfect sense, but you almost want to be alone again, just to chase away the feeling.

Cinque unbarricades the door for the two of them while you’re out collecting supplies. You see them on the roof and nearly beat them to death before Brooke puts a hand on your arm and tells you that they’re friendly. You nearly punch her and Cinque in the face, because this is not the kind of decision they’re supposed to make without consulting you.

You have to remind yourself, pointedly, that you are not their leader.

The girl is standing, cringing back from you, and the boy is sitting on the ground, cradling his arm. You ask if it’s broken and he says “Probably.” Weak links. They’ll drag you down.

You blink and you’re asking Brooke to get you a good metal bar. You put his arm in a makeshift cast, just like your dad taught you, even while he makes jokes about not being able to jerk off anymore that tempt you to break his arm further.

The girl thanks you profusely. The boy calls you dude, which sends a very unwelcome rush of gender euphoria through your lungs. You shouldn’t need strangers to validate your masculinity.

“We’ll leave as soon as we can, don’t worry,” the girl says.

“You can stay as long you want, Shyanne,” Brooke replies before you can say a word.

You need to stop being such a control freak. You reach into your bag, pulling out one of the energy drinks you got while you were looting. You try not to think about how unsustainable the habit is.

You hear Shyanne whispering to Brooke. “Can you ask if he can drop the bat?”

“It’s not you. He sleeps with it.”

You climb out on one of the thick oak trees whose branches touch your rooftop. You bury yourself in the leaves and try not to think about running.

In one week, the zombies start pounding on the barricaded door, start congregating outside. You all flee through the trees. You have to put Lucas’s good arm over your shoulder and practically carry him along, and he has to trust that you won’t push him into the horde. Equally difficult tasks.

You spot a truck with only a lone zombie near it. “Can anyone hotwire cars?” You ask through your heavy breathing. Lucas raises a splinted hand.

He gets Brooke to help him because she has the nimblest fingers. You’d rather have her on sniper duty. She hands you one of her pistols and you hold it with an untrained hand, unwilling to let go of your bat for a second. Shyanne is next to you, holding the butterfly knife you didn’t want to give her. Cinque is wielding a fire extinguisher.

“It’s done!” Lucas shouts as the truck roars to life. You shove the pistol back into Brooke’s hand and hop in the driver’s seat, praying to every god you have never believed in that it’s a stick shift.

It is.

Lucas, Shyanne, and Brooke are all crammed in the backseat. You keep the cool metal handle of your bat between your knees. “Where did you learn to drive?” Cinque asks.

Your grip around the steering wheel is white-knuckled. You are not supposed to talk about life before. “My dad was teaching me.”

The car is silent. The past tense burrows itself under your tongue.

“Where now?” you ask the car, in lieu of letting one of them fill the quiet.

If someone had asked where you’d go before this, you would have said California. California split along the San Andreas fault in January, when this all started. You had just turned sixteen. You were looking forward to getting your license.

California is at the bottom of the ocean, now.

“Montana?” Lucas suggests, his voice a little strained. This is a lot of exercise for a guy with a broken arm.

“It’ll be cold,” you remind him.

“Everywhere will be cold,” Brooke reminds you.

“We’d have to go through Idaho.” The car goes silent again. No one wants to go through Idaho. “Oregon?”

“Why not go further up North?” Shyanne suggests quietly. “Fewer people there.”

You go North.

This is October in Washington: It is so cold that your fingers are numb, in your rare moments of sleep you have nightmares about snow, and there is a person on the side of the road.

“Stop for them, Tony!” Brooke commands you. You almost don’t. You do.

Some tiny part of you wonders if this person will help fill out your niche. Brooke and Cinque are best friends. Shyanne and Lucas are dating. When do you get your other puzzle piece?

They’re trying to flag you down, you notice as you slow the truck. They clamber into the back so quickly that you’re positive they’ve never watched any movies about serial killers picking up hitchhikers.

You almost want to take out the bat, just to scare a little sense into them. “Where are you going?”   
  
“My name's Shu,” they tell you, although that’s not what you asked.

“Where are you going?” you ask again.

“I don’t know.”

You try not to start sobbing into your hands as you realize that they’re getting a spot in this group whether you like it or not. Which is a little dramatic, even for your tastes. Maybe you should be sleeping more.

There shouldn’t be room for them in the back, but they’re tiny, so they squeeze in next to Brooke.

Somehow, Brooke and them get to talking about some show they both watched before, and they already fit in better than you do.

You started this group. It’s not fair that you still feel like an outsider.

You bring one hand down to grip around your bat, keeping the other on the wheel.

Maybe it’s not their fault that you don’t fit, though. Maybe it’s yours.

This is November in Washington: You’re near to Canada, there’s snow in your rear-view mirror, and you are alone.

You’ve split up to get as many supplies as you can before crossing the border. They are all in groups of two. You asked to be alone.

You haven’t been truly alone since you met Brooke.

You were alone a long time before that, though, so you’re used to it.

You’re exploring the subway system on a whim when you are very suddenly not alone anymore.

You are standing in one of the train cars when the door is grating shut behind you. There’s a knife hovering at your ribcage. You grip your bat so tight it hurts.

“What are you doing here?” the person behind you asks.

“Wanted to see if there was any good loot.”

“Why would there be good loot down here?”

You shrug stiffly, feeling yourself go red. The knife is still on your skin, but it’s not pressing anymore. “I don’t want to steal your shit. Just let me get back to my friends.”

It is a very odd first time to call a group of people your friends, but you have never claimed to be conventional.

The knife is drawn back. You turn around and watch as the person tugs on the shut subway car door. It doesn’t budge. Despite every instinct in you screaming to stay away from them, you come up to try and help. It does not move.

“You locked us in here!” You jab an accusing finger at them, and he swats it away.

“I didn’t mean to!”

You go back and forth like that for a few minutes as the panic in your chest builds. Finally, you get tired of yelling and settle into one of the seats, arms crossed, still gripping your bat.

“I’m Cosmo,” he tells you.

“Tony,” you tell them.

“You a loner?”

“No.”

“I am.”

You scratch at your arm. You can only hope that none of your friends can drive, that they still need you enough to come looking for you. You and Cosmo sit in more silence, on opposite sides of the train car, for a long time. You shiver, even in your jacket.

You can’t imagine how Cosmo must feel, in that shitty hoodie.

You try to sleep. You can’t. You’re hungry. “How’d you get the knife?” you end up asking, after a long few hours. It must be night now.

They have their knees pulled up to their chest, holding the knife up, pointed at nothing. “Looted it, back in March.” They turn to face you. “How’d you get the bat?”

You freeze. No one has dared to ask yet. They all know that it is important and that you don’t like talking about important things, so they don’t ask. You’re going to brush it off, but the words are coming out before you can. “My dad gave it to me. Before.”

Cosmo nods, solemnly.

“I really miss cartoons,” he says with a laugh.

You're smiling before you can help yourself. “Fuck, man, me too.”

Before you can keep going, there’s a pounding on the door. You jerk up, bat attack-ready, but instead of a zombie outside, you see Brooke. The grin on your face doesn’t slip, no matter how much you try to push it down.

She tries pushing on the slider door for a minute before ushering you to the left with her hand. You drag Cosmo back with you, trying not to mind the way they shrink from your touch. Brooke pulls out her pistol and shoots the door.

Then she’s jerking it open and pulling you into a hug.

You freeze in her grip. She has her head over your shoulder, holding onto the back of your jacket. You feel a wet spot grow on your shoulder and realize that she’s crying. Slowly, awkwardly, you bring your hands up around her as well.

“Don’t do that again, Tony,” she commands. “We thought you were dead.” You nod helplessly. Your body still doesn’t know what to do with itself.

You’re still holding tight to her when you say “This is Cosmo.”

“Hi,” he says with a small wave.

Brooke pulls back from you, wiping her hands over her eyes. “Nice to meet you.”

You walk out together. You arrive at the truck and you get two more hugs, which is two times the hugs you’ve had all year.

You all pile into the car and you find that your hands are shaking.

This is December in Canada: The snow goes up to your ankles, you turn seventeen, and you fit.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you thought of it. Comments always make my day <3


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